


a cheap solution to block out regret

by pricklesandthorns



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Ghostbur, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Most of the characters are just mentioned, No Romance, Pain. JSJJJ, Schlatt and Wilbur are ghosts, TechnoBlade, Wilbur lost his memory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27639332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pricklesandthorns/pseuds/pricklesandthorns
Summary: “Where is it, Schlatt?”He looked up.“Where’s what, Wilbur?”Wilbur was sat right on the edge of the hill, staring out at the horizon. When he didn’t respond, Schlatt inhaled a breath of air he didn’t need, then walked to stand by his side. The pale sun made their transparent bodies shimmer, but Schlatt didn’t feel warmth. He couldn’t feel anything at all.“L’manberg,” Wilbur said, softly. “It’s gone.”or: Wilbur has amnesia.
Comments: 36
Kudos: 280





	1. feel like i saw a ghost

Schlatt wasn’t sure that, in life, he’d ever given the prospect of being a ghost any lengthy consideration. He wasn’t the sort of man to linger on what comes next, especially since he was so preoccupied with the path he carved for himself while living. The only thing that mattered to him while he could still feel the sun on his skin was the length to which he could maximise his influence and power; and sometimes, when he lost himself in thought, very rarely, he considered his legacy. No need for afterlife, he thought, if your image lives on without limit after you crumble to dust.

Whether or not this strange new existence qualified as afterlife was up for debate, and Schlatt didn’t like philosophy and unanswerable questions, so ultimately, he didn’t care- at least it’s not hell, he had reasoned, until he tried to take a drag from a cigarette he found in his translucent pocket and the pull of his lungs inhaled nothing, the smoke dancing away into the air. 

He’d tried to angrily crush it out on the back of his hand, but it went right through. 

Maybe it wasn’t hell in the sense that he was boiling in hellfire, he couldn’t even give himself a cigarette burn, didn’t feel it at all, but maybe the hellish aspect of this ghostly purgatory was exactly that. Not feeling.

It had taken a while to realise that he was now a ghost, a spectre, whatever; it felt like going to sleep, with a gap in the memory of when exactly it began once you woke up in the morning. He’d opened his eyes- and was surrounded by rubble. Weird, he’d thought, stepping over crumbling stones and glass, very fucking weird. Last thing he remembered, he was- oh. He was half-collapsed on the ground, drunk out of his mind, surrounded by his adoring public, who all seemed to be pointing weapons at him. He remembered a diamond sword, glinting in the light that came through the window of the van. Who was holding that sword? And why? Schlatt couldn’t remember. Strangely, he was also now completely sober. How long had he been asleep? What the fuck had happened to the van? Wait- what the fuck happened to the entire goddamn country?

Namely, it was gone. Schlatt couldn’t recall how long he had stood there in shock, feeling something akin to grief, staring at the tattered black and red flag that hung limply from the flagpole, torn nearly entirely in half and moving weakly in the breeze. Nobody was around. He thought everyone was dead.

Someone more in touch with their emotions would’ve probably screamed, or cried out, sunk to their knees at the ruins of his country, ripped out his hair, searched desperately for any survivors. Schlatt felt more dazed than anything, and then he just felt numb. The first thing he did once he’d calibrated himself was look for a liquor bottle amongst the carnage. Maybe one had stayed intact. There was no harm in looking.

What Schlatt knew now was that they hadn’t died, perished in the destruction like it was fucking pompeii, their corpses pulled into macabre freeze-frames, mockeries of life. He had died, kicked the bucket, been fucking curb-stomped by God, or more specifically, he’d been seized by a heart attack of all things, shutting down his already scarred organs, and he’d died on the floor.

Nobody helped him. He remembered now.

Death had stricken him with a temporary amnesia. Now, he remembered everything. Which was why, when the tall, cloaked figure of Wilbur had approached him a few mornings after his death, he felt the phantom pains of his untimely demise take hold of him once again, and he’d staggered backwards in both shock, anger, and buried deep down within him, relief. Wilbur could see him. Nobody else could, but Wilbur was headed straight for him, was looking him right in the eyes, was-

A ghost. Wilbur was a ghost. As he came closer, the shimmering around his form became more visible, and Schlatt exhaled, shutting his eyes tight.

“Schlatt?”

“Wilbur- Wilbur, hey.” His eyes were still closed, and his jaw clenched, even when he spoke. He hadn’t known Wilbur was dead. He hadn’t cared enough about any of the living people to listen in to their conversations, do any sort of headcount. Schlatt had been drifting, time blurring. It had been three days but the hours stretched out into eternity and without the need for food or water or sleep his existence had been empty. And painful. Schlatt was in agony. He finally opened his eyes.

“Schlatt?” Wilbur stopped, a few feet away. His face was grey and his eyes were dark, his hair curling wildly over his face until he brushed it back with a gloved hand. “What’s wrong with you? Why do you look like that?”

“Charming, Wilbur. Real charming. I know I’m not that much of a looker lately, but-“

“Schlatt.”

“What? Schlatt what, dipshit? Why are you even fucking talking to me?” The anger in his voice bursted from nowhere. As the reality of the situation dawned on him, he realised that he really didn’t want to have to break the news to Wilbur that they were both dead. He couldn’t even tell Wilbur how he had died, because he didn’t know. Schlatt was mourning the death of a man stood right in front of him and he felt the loss deep within where his heart used to be before it gave up on him. Like everything else had.

“Nobody else will talk to me.”

“Huh?” His voice was sharp, sudden, and desperate. God. What the fuck was he going to say? Stall him, stall him. 

Wilbur looked away, staring off at the tattered flag. There was a haze over his face, like he couldn’t see through a thick mist. It was like he had to concentrate hard to speak. Schlatt remembered the feeling. “It’s like nobody can see me.”

Schlatt also remembered figuring out that nobody could see him, in fact, walked straight through him. Alex had strided, laughing, straight through his chest. His throat tightened. 

“Not even- Tommy can’t- he can’t see me, Schlatt.” 

“That’s weird,” He said, in a monotone voice, as Wilbur turned his head to meet his gaze again. “I can see you.”

“Yeah, I-“ Wilbur furrowed his brow, reached a hand up to scratch the back of his head. “You’re the only one. Seriously, why do you look like that? You’re kind of- I can kind of see through you. Am I high?”

“I don’t know, you might be,” Schlatt said, softly, and looked down at his feet. “Did you eat some gone off mushroom stew?”

There was a silence. Schlatt sighed deeply. “What do you remember?”

“I- We were climbing up the tower. Towards you, and Karl. You ran away...”

Schlatt tensed. He shoved his hands into his pockets and gripped tightly onto the fabric, twisting violently between his fingers. “Yeah.”

“And then. We all went into the van. That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Schlatt, what’s going-“

“Wilbur, I’m dead.”

The words left him carefully, but his voice was firm, and he sought out Wilbur’s gaze. Wilbur didn’t react for a few seconds, still stuck in a haze, but then his eyes widened, and he teetered a little, shifting his weight to his back heel as he took the smallest step back, so small it seemed almost accidental.

“So are you.”

Wilbur was frozen in place. Schlatt just watched him, still clutching the inside of his pockets, his shoes dug into the ground, although when he looked down briefly, he could see that he left no footprints. It dawned on him that what he had done left no physical legacy at all. His being here as a ghost affected nothing in the living world. And now Wilbur was here with him, sharing this empty existence. He had no idea what to say to his old friend to make it any better.

For a long time, Wilbur did, said, and probably thought nothing. Schlatt thought he would’ve laughed it off, or grown irritated, or at least asked more questions. Doubted him a little. Secretly, that’s what Schlatt wanted. For Wilbur to be angry at him. As furious as Schlatt had been with Wilbur throughout his entire presidency, Wilbur had never directly cared about him. He was lost in his own little dilemma about being the villain. He couldn’t even give him the one thing he managed to draw from everyone. Schlatt thought about how they used to be, before this country even came to be- it had been the two of them together, now it was the two of them together again, this time tied together by fate, not by choice. He thought about the water, rising, and the sensation started to flood his lungs.

How long had it been since he’d told Wilbur what had happened to him? When he looked off into the horizon, the sun was rising higher, had reached its peak. After what seemed like a horrifyingly long time, Wilbur stepped back, then turned away, walked to the edge of the hill they were stood on, and sat down. Schlatt swallowed as he Wilbur drew his knees into his chest. A breeze moved the grass around him, he could see, but his hair stayed still, as did his coat. He was like a statue, the grass sprouting around him was lichen and moss, he could’ve been there for thousands of years and Schlatt wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. Looking at the state of being of another ghost somehow made his heart heavier than the sensation of actually being one. 

“What happened to us?” 

“I had a fucking heart attack.”

“You were drunk,” Wilbur said, almost immediately. “I remember you being drunk.”

“I always am.” Schlatt smiled, and Wilbur looked over his shoulder and up at him, frowning. “What?”

“That’s not a good thing.”

He shrugged. “What does it matter now? I’m dead.”

“That’s probably what killed you.”

“No it fucking didn’t.” Schlatt’s voice rose, and his eyebrows leapt up dangerously. “Heart attack.”

“In the van?”

He nodded.

Wilbur looked back out over the hill. “I only remember you standing there, coughing. All of us standing around, watching.”

“Yeah, and then I died.”

Wilbur didn’t turn again, but Schlatt could see him tense up. “Right in front of me?”

“In front of everyone.”

“Nobody helped?”

Pain coursed through Schlatt, though not physical- regardless, he winced, facing strong and viciously clear images of faces around him, watching with a mix of disgust and pity and confusion as he succumbed to his heart attack. On Wilbur’s face, there was also triumph. He spoke through gritted teeth, eyes burning as he stared at the back of Wilbur’s head. He knew that Wilbur could feel his resentment. “Nobody.”

“Sorry.”

That’s all he fucking had to say? Sorry? Schlatt was furious. Why were they even speaking eachother? What difference did death make to their estrangement? What had happened while they were living was not redundant just because they had both passed on. Wilbur had always been this fucking irritating, but usually he could do something about it. And usually it was just annoyance. What Schlatt felt now was deep, bone-chilling betrayal and rejection. He remembered the water swirling around them. He felt cold, even though he knew that was impossible.

“What about me?” Wilbur asked, cutting through Schlatt’s thoughts.

“What about you.” 

“How did I die?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there. I only gained- consciousness or whatever- like a day after I ‘passed on’, and I just. Never looked for you. It didn’t cross my mind that you might be dead. But here you are. Welcome to the fucking club. It’s ass.”

Long silence between fractions of conversation was apparently their new thing, because Wilbur didn’t respond, just drew his knees up tighter to his chest and hunched over. Schlatt looked over his own shoulder, wondering when would be the polite time to just fucking leave. This was getting kind of sad, and the more he thought about Wilbur, and the context and weird history behind them, the angrier he got, but something inside of him stopped him taking it out on Wilbur himself. And nobody else could fucking see or hear him. Maybe he’d figure out how to possess someone. Fuck with Alex. Alex...

“Where is it, Schlatt?”

He looked up.

“Where’s what, Wilbur?”

Wilbur was sat right on the edge of the hill, staring out at the horizon. When he didn’t respond, Schlatt inhaled a breath of air he didn’t need, then walked to stand by his side. The pale sun made their transparent bodies shimmer, but Schlatt didn’t feel warmth. He couldn’t feel anything at all.

“L’manberg,” Wilbur said, softly. “It’s gone.”

As he spoke, his voice cracked completely and gave way to a deep sob. Schlatt froze, alarmed by this sudden switch in emotion, and watched as Wilbur’s shoulders began to jerk, even has he curled on into himself as tightly as he could.

Holy shit. What the hell. How was he supposed to comfort someone who hated him? And why should he? At point, Schlatt would’ve relished this. He would’ve saved and framed his pain. This time, he couldn’t quite muster up the malice. Without thinking, he instead walked over and sat silently by Wilbur’s side. Wilbur almost immediately moved closer, rested his head on Schlatt’s shoulder. They could make contact. Schlatt closed his eyes tightly, blocking out the sun, as oceans swirled around in his head. Wilbur just continued to cry.


	2. turn you back into a stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing adds up.

For a long time, while they both sat there, hunched together in grass, Schlatt was scared to look at Wilbur. He was so close- and he seemed so small, which was deeply unnerving, as Wilbur had always been- tall. Physically, and in personality. He commanded attention, despite being so understated and gentle about it. There was an awkwardness to him that came with being taller than everyone else in the room, but he wore it well, and before all of this chaos and politics, Schlatt had admired it. He knew the feeling of being out of place, sticking out of the crowd- for fuck’s sake, he had horns. During his youth he’d tried to hide them, never seen without a cap and letting his hair grow long, but they became so large that it was impossible. So he submitted to their existence, cutting his hair significantly shorter and adorning them with random jewellery he found, wrapping chains and bracelets and even a rosary around them, drawing as much attention as was humanly possible. It wasn’t pride, though. It was resignation, and it was an attempt to make them seem less fucking ugly. Whenever he met someone, that’s where they looked. They made him look like a demon. Maybe it was inevitable for him to turn to the malice and slavering ambition that claimed his life, adopt the persona he believed they gave him. Food for thought, Schlatt considered, as he angled his head carefully so to not catch Wilbur with them. They were sharp. They pushed people away. They were cruel and aggressive and they were all for show. 

He was scared to look at Wilbur not only in case he caught him with his horns, but also because he was worried that he would see the vulnerability and emotional exhaustion he knew he wore on his face. For days he’d craved the protective blanket of being drunk, and when he was faced with the prospect of eternal sobriety, staring mournfully at broken glass, and trying to drink alcohol he couldn’t taste, he had spiralled out of control, smashed bottles against walls, screamed himself hoarse the top of his lungs, facing the reality that he had no whiskey crutch and was completely alone and always would be-

Alcohol wasn’t an option anymore. Even as a ghost, he shook. He wondered if Wilbur could feel him trembling and willed himself to stop.

Wilbur had stopped crying a while ago, the violent shakes of his shoulders calming into a steady rise and depress of manual inhale and exhale, breathing exercises in order to calm him down, a tactic Schlatt recognised, so he also began breathing manually, matching Wilbur’s rhythm. They didn’t need to breathe, and Schlatt certainly didn’t need to stop an approaching panic attack. It was calming, though, the warmth, the rhythm, the closeness of how they were sat, as cold as they were, as little the elements of the world now affected them. It was like the approach of the end of the world, but it had already ended, and only they had survived. 

What poetic goddamn irony.

“Why don’t I remember?” Wilbur’s voice wavered, and Schlatt swallowed, looking up at the sky as if he could find the answer there, shape it out of the clouds. 

“I couldn’t. At first.”

There wasn’t an immediate reaction, so Schlatt finally chanced it and snuck a proper look at Wilbur’s face. He was still grey and washed out, deep hollows beneath his glazed eyes, that stared straight ahead, unblinking. His eyelashes were spiked and stark. For the first time since he’d woken up a ghost, he wondered what he looked like- mournful, empty, washed out, sick? Wilbur as all of these things, his dark hair tangled and unruly. He smelled faintly of gunpowder, he noted in the back of his mind. It was almost addictive, being this close to someone again. It seemed that since they were both dead, senses worked. Only for eachother. Some malevolent force had made it so that the inherent desperation for human interaction meant that just ignoring one another was almost physically impossible. Schlatt wasn’t sure that he could move even if he wanted to, and he was lost in concern about this aspect into Wilbur solved the problem for him, finally lifting his head so that Schlatt had to shift sideways an inch, looking away sheepishly as Wilbur straightened out his shoulders and turned his head to stare. “Really?”

Hopefulness and a hint of concern danced across Wilbur’s deathly features, and Schlatt shifted uncomfortably, suddenly extremely adverse to their close proximity. All Wilbur had done was look at him, but he felt like he was being interrogated. Adamant to remain level headed, Schlatt moved away even further, and crossed his legs, his hands moving to hold onto his knees and his nails digging into the fabric of his slacks- the he pressure of being alone with Wilbur and no façade of authority or power to hide behind was that deeply uncomfortable. “Yeah. It’s probably normal. Just listen to the living, that’s what I did. I found out eventually.” 

Now that they had separated, Wilbur looked even more lost, and tilted his head, his mouth opening slightly and then closing, like he couldn’t decide what to say or do. Schlatt sat quietly and watched him as he extended an arm up into the air, flexing his long fingers, almost trying to grasp the sky, seeing how the image flickered, and the light shone through his transparent skin. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“What do you mean?” His words were slow and distracted, and he was barely listening. He just stared at Wilbur, reaching out into the open air, fingers closing around nothingness, his skin pallid and thin and the sleeves of his coat falling down to his elbows. It occurred to him that Wilbur should be angrier than this, less comfortable, less vulnerable, given all that had happened between them. This was not an equal adversary- Schlatt had always been the perpetrator of their divide. The problem had always been him. 

“I don’t remember why we were going up that tower. I don’t remember why we were all standing around you in that van. Did you do something- something bad?”

Had he done something bad?

Alex. Tommy. Niki. Wilbur. Tubbo.

Pain surged in his chest suddenly, and he doubled over where he sat, hand clutching at his shirt, screwing his eyes up tightly.

“Schlatt? Hey, are you okay?” The genuine concern in Wilbur’s voice just made the pain worse, and he waved his free hand to try and shoo him away when he scrambled to his feet and then kneeled beside him, placing a hand on Schlatt’s shoulder firmly and using the other to try and tilt his head up towards him. Though he tried to resist, he was too weak to push him away, so he met Wilbur’s eyes. Jesus. Will had no idea. “Schlatt- Schlatt. Are you okay? Jonathan?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Fucking get off me,” Schlatt responded almost immediately, as he began to recover, pushing Wilbur back with both of his hands violently and struggling to his feet. Wilbur staggered back a little, propping himself up with one hand and looking up at Schlatt with genuine confusion. “What the fuck, dude?”

“You were crowding me.”

“I was worried!”

“I don’t need you to worry about me.”

“What is wrong with you?” Wilbur stood up.

“We’re dead, Wilbur! Look at me! Look at yourself!” Suddenly, Schlatt was shouting, his voice breaking as his face contorted with rage, completely ignoring Wilbur flinching backwards. “What the fuck do you think is wrong? I feel like shit! I wish death was just nothingness so I wouldn’t have to think anymore! And I’m so- goddamn- cold…”

The silence that followed roared in his ears.

“It’s getting colder every day, Will. I can’t stand it.”

Wilbur stared at him. His hands were deep in his pockets and he looked at Schlatt in a way that made him want to punch him in the face. “I just don’t understand what happened.”

Schlatt did. Up until a point. But this revelation that Wilbur didn’t remember any of what he’d done turned everything fucking upside down. If only he’d forgotten, too. If only they could be the versions of themselves before the existence of this poisonous country.

“Tell me everything you remember.”

“Starting when?”

“From the beginning.”

“I’m not sure it would all be relevant.”

“I don’t give a shit, Wilbur.”

“I remember… Phil, protecting me. And- Tommy, and Techno, my brothers. Sparring with them as kids.”

Maybe that was a little too far back, but Wilbur seemed lost in the past, staring at the ground. “I remember… L’manberg...” He shut his eyes, tight. It hurt to look at him. “And I remember winning the war. Being president. People cheering for me. I remember watching Fundy grow up…” Now, his eyes were shining, and Schlatt’s heart ached for him. In a way, maybe it was better that he didn’t know Fundy had renounced his father in front of Schlatt, even if in the end, Fundy was really on Wilbur’s side all along. He wrote pages and pages about him, analysing him, Schlatt had found it, but at that point, he didn’t care. Old man, alcoholic, asthmatic, what did it matter what people thought of him? He was president.

“I remember Niki. And Sally.” Will lifted his head and looked at him. “I remember winning an election. I remember a ravine. And tunnels. And arrows. And Fire.”

Schlatt shivered. It was so cold. “What do you remember about me?”

“We were friends,” Wilbur said softly, sounding confused, reaching up to rub his hands into his eyes. “You were my best friend. Why did I- why was I chasing you? Why did I hold a sword to your throat? Why did I want to kill you? What have I done, Schlatt? Jesus, what the fuck have I done?” His voice trailed off into a desperately high pitch, and he swayed, like it was difficult to stay upright. Schlatt felt his throat tighten. “I don’t know, Wilbur, I don’t know-“

“Why did I feel so guilty when I saw Tommy? And Tubbo? Why was I scared when I looked at Phil? Why do you make me feel so fucking angry? What fucking happened to L’manberg?” At this, Wilbur fell to his knees. Schlatt made no motion to help him. He felt frozen in place.

“What do you know that I don’t?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was gonna be a lot longer but idk if anyone would read that SMJXKSJX anyway..... more angst I can’t stop myself !!!!

**Author's Note:**

> ... angst
> 
> May continue this idk  
> I wrote it at four am pls cut me some slack :)))


End file.
